


Again.

by angel_no_2046



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Amnesia, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Dissociative Memory Loss, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay, Gay Panic, I've only watched the anime, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Orihara Izaya in a Wheelchair, Partial Memory Loss, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roommates, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, critiques appreciated, pretty inexperienced in writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26375044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_no_2046/pseuds/angel_no_2046
Summary: Izaya doesn't remember, but fragments of his past come and go.Shizuo doesn't know why, but he misses the broker's presence.Will they be able to live again?Housemates.*Please read tags!
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo & Orihara Izaya, Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Again.

A pair of rectangular sunglasses and a barely smoked pack of Blue American Spirit Cigarettes sit upon his table, the spectacles broken but not beyond repair. He places his fingers upon the sleek table, where several outdated phones lie on the opposite side of the surface and swipe his petite hand across the furniture. They aren’t used anymore, with the batteries taken out but they serve as a memoir, of his old days.

_What's the use of keeping a memoir if I can't in bloody hell remember?_

**_“You can run from your past all you want, but it will always follow you. Forever and ever and ever and ever.”_ **

The words repeat in his head, though he’s not sure why it was said, who said it and how he remembers it. 

Time’s long gone, from the last time the room had a presence.

_It’s been so long._

The table is dusty, and there isn’t an ashtray in sight. The pack of cigarettes, once a vibrant turquoise - was now a faded blue. Sunlight shines through the roller blinds, casting a linear shadow atop the table, and in his hands lie a photograph of four teenage boys. They’re standing next to a graduation ceremony banner, with a blonde-haired boy almost out of frame to the most right. 

A grimace shown on their faces. He’s frowning - both of them are.

With furrowed eyebrows, he glances at his glass cabinet. If he remembers correctly, a singular button torn from the threads laying hidden under his graduation cap from the last time he looked in the cabinet. But he doesn't. He doesn't remember.

_No one else knows. It feels like it were only yesterday. It feels like forever ago. Aeons, even. But-_

His eyes flicker back to the photograph. He sees himself standing closest to the ceremony banner, two other boys standing between the blonde boy and himself, his younger counterpart wearing the uniform - a rarity in itself. One has slicked-back hair with a slight smile, whilst the other spectacled boy grins at the camera, holding up a peace sign with arms linking the group.

The blonde boy looks frustrated.

_Of course._

His mind doesn’t know why he’s definitively thought of this.

He glances back to the broken pair of shades, and his gaze lingers on the cigarettes. He takes one from the slightly crumpled box. It can’t be used anymore, but the faint smell reminds him of someone. Taking the cigarette, he crushes it in the palm of his hand, letting it crumble to the floor with the cigarette paper wrinkled, but still intact. He thinks that it’s a little like himself.

Guilt’s been eating away at him for a while now. Not that anyone knows. He stays away from the city where everything happened. Nightmares still remind him of his manipulative ways, and sometimes when he looks at a switchblade it gives a haunting sense, and he suspects it may have to do with his past. It flickers through his mind like a lightbulb, looming at the back of his head, reading to catch him off guard, but he never truly remembers the scene that played out;

**There are vending machines and broken pieces of asphalt everywhere. Road signs litter the area, thrown left, right and centre. It’s dark. Cold.**

**_I can’t breathe. My bones are most definitely broken. How long has it been?_ **

**_How long has it been?_ **

**_How long has it been?_ **

**_I can’t tell._ **

**He winces in pain, he’s bruised and battered, clothes half torn, half shredded. Attempting to stand up, a coppery smell floods his nose. But he can’t feel. He can’t see properly. He isn’t able to, but he doesn’t want to. With blurred vision, his numbed hands feel for a switchblade in his pocket.**

**_Is this the end? It’s...everything’s...I’m dizzy._ **

**He holds it out, trying to clear his vision to throw it at the perpetrator of his injuries. It’s too physically taxing. His legs give out and the knife that was one second in the air is now part of his wounds, sheathed in his abdomen.**

**_Breathe...breathe...breathe! I need to run, I have to. I can’t let him see. I can’t- I can’t move, I can’t breathe._ **

**_Maybe this is the befitting end for endless lies and dishonesty. But everyone lies, everyone hides things._ **

**“Goodbye, Shizu-chan. I guess you got to me before I got to you. Fitting, chasing the flea.”**

**His vision blurs, and he staggers before he sees a face look down on him and it’s the last of him.**

**It truly was goodbye.**

The wheelchair topples over, and tears are running down his face, he’s hyperventilating. His rapid panting is deafening to his ears; it’s easy to fall into an episode. He sees these visions and doesn’t know whether he conjured them through his mind or if they were actual occurrences. It hasn’t been the same since the incident, his arms are still weak and he reaches for the hidden bottle of Zoloft in the pocket of his jacket. It’s not the same one he used to wear all the time akin to his folding knife, but he can’t bear to even look at it despite missing that part of his past. It brings him too many traumatic memories; they’re vague and he can’t remember the faces, but he knows it’s a symbol for meddling.

Quickly, he grasps tightly at the water bottle attached to his wheelchair, almost breaking the plastic from the way he throws the bottle down after he’s done gulping down the tablets. He knows it’s too late. Trembling, he places his palms in front of his torso, slowly bringing himself up. 

It can’t be done - he falls, again. He tries, he tries, he tries - tries to get up again, and he manages to stand up, teetering on his toes. It’s psychosomatic, he doesn’t feel he deserves to walk again; it can’t be done - he falls, again.

Deeper, deeper, deeper again.

_Fuck. How long has it been? Since the last time I’ve walked._

Memories fail people. And so, his do too. 

_I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it._

Whose fault is it? Undoubtedly, his own.

The only thing he knows. He knows he was in a matter of words, an asshole before the amnesia hit. Manami and Kine would remind him, every time he was in their care.

Perhaps, if he had acted in a regular manner then maybe he’d have a caretaker or even someone who cared for him. Up until now, his only friend was the bespectacled doctor; maybe if he had played his cards right, he wouldn’t have been left to be taken care of by Kine and Manami. He doesn’t even know who they are. He wishes he could remember everything, but fragments only come and go.

_No._

In the end, it would’ve been better if he never met that monster, an entity that he convinced himself was incapable of loving, yet the conflict within the deeply buried memories remain, where he isn’t aware of the harm done, either by his own hands, by his adversaries and by the people who were connected to him.

_Will I ever be able to walk again?_


End file.
